


Cinder: Beginning

by wheel_pen



Series: Cinder [1]
Category: Original Work, Sharpe (TV)
Genre: M/M, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason, also known as Yasen or Cinder in the local language, is an American teenager kidnapped while visiting Russia. He ends up in a mysterious country where he doesn’t understand anything—except that the ruler intends to keep him around, and not for noble purposes. Snippets of some unfinished early stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.  
> Technically Cinder is not a slave, but he’s still living under subjugation; inherent in this are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this original work, which was inspired by many different stories.
> 
> Visual reference:  
> Cinder--Christian Slater  
> Oleg--Sean Bean  
> Patrick--Daragh O'Malley from the Sharpe series

It was, Sergeant Patrick Gildea thought as he stifled a sigh, another one of _those_ days. The country actually ran quite well on its own, thanks to the almost choking levels of bureaucracy which ruled even the most remote districts, but if the bills didn’t get signed at the highest levels of the government, the proper permissions didn’t trickle down to the harbormasters, and the ships of grain sat rotting at the docks instead of floating down the rivers delivering their goods. And inasmuch as Patrick aided the leader of his adopted government in many tasks, forging Oleg’s signature was _not_ one he was willing to resort to. Yet.

“This is the most _boring_ waste of time _ever_!” Oleg declared, shoving the sheaf of papers violently off the top of the mobile desk that had been rolled before him at his throne in the main room of the castle. Patrick closed his eyes briefly and fought to keep his temper in check as the clerks scurried around the cold stone floor, gathering up the unsigned documents and putting them back in order. Perhaps the Sergeant would reconsider the forgery tactic.

“A dull task indeed, sir,” he agreed carefully, “but a necessary one.”

Oleg growled low in his throat and knocked the pen off the desk as well. Orumov, one of Patrick’s most promising assistants, hurriedly dropped to his knees to retrieve it, and to his alarm Patrick saw a faint gleam of interest in his commander’s eyes as he glanced at the younger man. _That_ Patrick was determined to nip in the bud. He couldn’t afford to lose Orumov’s diplomatic and investigative skills, no matter what other attractions the lad might hold.

“You’ve not been to see Polya today, sir,” Patrick suggested cheerfully, and Oleg ripped his gaze away from the young clerk to glare at his sergeant. First line of defense...

Instantly Patrick realized that, for some unknown reason, that had been the wrong thing to say. Oleg’s face darkened even further and he scowled as he declared, “No, and I’m not _going_ to. I’m angry with him.”

Patrick gestured subtly for the clerks to take the papers and desk away with them. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” he told his commander. “May I ask why?”

“We had an argument,” Oleg spat, slouching in his throne. “The stupid creature _refuses_ to come to Mandarpena with me to see the races.”

“Well, you know racing has never held much interest for him, sir,” Patrick soothed, signaling for one of the pageboys to bring some tea. “You’ve said yourself he thinks it’s beneath him.”

“Well, I’m not bloody asking _him_ to run in the race,” Oleg protested. “Just watch with me. Is that so unpleasant?”

Patrick approached his next point delicately. “Perhaps, sir, you’ve been about the castle too much.” Oleg shot him a questioning glance. “Perhaps Polya’s taken your presence for granted. If you would consider going up to Mandarpena on your own, he might regret his hasty...” Patrick struggled for the proper term. “...words.”

For a moment Oleg looked thoughtful, and Patrick dared to hope. Then he shook his reddish-brown head, rejecting the idea, and Patrick allowed the tiniest, most inaudible sigh to escape his lips. It made him feel a little better, anyway. “No, no, Patrick, that would be boring,” he decided finally, closing his eyes as if the tediousness was almost too much for him to bear. “I need someone to talk to.” Patrick refrained from commenting on the conversational skills of Polya, who was in fact the Shashka’s beloved horse. “And _you’re_ always so busy,” he added accusingly.

His early 30ish commander, who had led the _Ostreliat_ , the sharpshooters’ division, during the war and fully earned the nickname of ‘The Butcher,’ was coming dangerously close to whining, Patrick noted. “Would you like me to be _less_ busy, sir?” he asked dryly.

Oleg cracked one steel-grey eye at Patrick’s tone. “No, because I don’t want to do any more work,” he decided, smiling just a tiny bit.

Patrick allowed the corner of his mouth to quirk up as well. The throne room was almost deserted, after all. “Well, is there anything else I can find for you to do, sir?”

“Isn’t there anybody I can shoot, or at least pass judgment on?”

“Well, I’ll look around, sir,” Patrick promised easily, “but no one comes to—“

Both men straightened as a commotion outside the throne room caught their attention. After a moment the doors opened and a disheveled messenger burst in, glaring back at the guards who had—justifiably, no doubt—detained him for identification. Patrick recognized him at once and cursed the young man for coming to the throne room first, instead of waiting in Patrick’s office and sending word to him. _When_ were these people going to learn how a proper network of back channels was run?

The messenger glanced questioningly at Patrick, who gave him a hard look, then the younger man dropped to his knees before his ruler, still panting a bit. Even to Patrick’s completely disinterested eye the messenger had nowhere near the charms of Orumov and yet the Shashka was giving him an appraising look as well. The Sergeant strengthened his resolve to get his commander out of town at the first opportunity, for some kind of distraction that wouldn’t involve a perfectly competent lad getting his head chopped off over an affair gone wrong.

“News from the Western provinces, my lord,” the messenger reported, head bowed.

“Something exciting, I hope,” Oleg replied, glancing at Patrick in anticipation. Patrick nodded at him eagerly, then turned back to giving the messenger the evil eye as soon as Oleg looked away. It wasn’t so much a matter of ego that caused Patrick to prefer hearing all major news items before the Shashka did; it was a matter of safety. Unfortunately most of the people who didn’t appreciate that fact ended up getting shot, so they didn’t have a chance to spread the lesson they’d learned among the populace at large.

The messenger dug a letter out of his pouch and handed it to the Shashka, who ripped it open, glanced at the signature, and promptly gave it to Patrick, too impatient to decipher the hastily-scrawled handwriting. “Well, tell us then,” he demanded of the messenger.

“Smugglers, my lord,” the messenger revealed eagerly, occasionally daring to glance up at his ruler’s face. “They’ve caught a ring of smugglers!”

Oleg looked a little disappointed. “What were they smuggling?” he asked, just in case.

“People, sir,” the younger man replied. “They were bringing people in over the border, from Russia, to work in the mines.”

The Shashka perked up again. “Human slaves?” His voice contained more enthusiasm and less indignation than most people’s would have, but Patrick was just glad the news was putting his commander in a better mood. “No one knows they’re in the country, so no one notices if they get injured or killed,” he continued thoughtfully. “That’s clever.”

The messenger gave his ruler a disconcerted glance, surprised at his tone. Patrick decided he’d better jump in. “If I might, sir,” he asked politely, then went on at Oleg’s nod, “How many smugglers did they catch?”

“Three, sir,” the messenger replied. “The magistrate—“

“Three!” Oleg repeated in disgust. “That’s all? How many slaves did they have?”

“About three dozen, sir. Mostly Russians, but some other foreigners they had tricked or kidnapped...”

Oleg thought quietly for a moment, just long enough to make Patrick nervous. “Slavery’s illegal in Zemelanika, Patrick,” he finally began, in one of his more commanding tones.

“Aye, sir, it is.”

“It’s inhumane, morally repugnant, banned by all major religions and philosophies.”

Patrick had no idea if the last bit was true, and he knew Oleg didn’t either, but he also knew he was supposed to agree. “Indeed, sir.” He just wished he knew what his commander was working up to.

“It derides the common dignity and freedom from terror that all humans have a right to.”

That, Patrick recognized; Oleg had been reading one of the humanitarian poets again. Bloody annoying, they were. “Quite so, sir.”

“So.” Oleg straightened up in his throne to a kingly stature and declared to the messenger, “Go back to the magistrates and tell them to send these three blights upon humanity—and all of their victims—here, to the castle. They will be tried by the King’s Court.”

A moment of dignified silence echoed through the throne room following this pronouncement, then the awed messenger nodded and started to scramble back towards the doors. Patrick hissed at him to get his attention, then gestured for the younger man to come to _him_ instead. The Sergeant nodded at Orumov, who was scribbling away behind them. “Go back to my office with him to get your orders,” he told the messenger quietly. “Don’t let him leave ‘til I’ve talked to him,” he added to Orumov. _Talk_ being, of course, a mere euphemism for what he was going to do to this youthful messenger for not following the proper procedure for delivering news to the Shashka.

As the two of them disappeared around the corner, the Irishman turned back to his commander and questioned lightly, “You want the former slaves here, too, sir?”

Oleg knew that tone and narrowed his eyes at him. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, sir,” Patrick assured him quickly. “But if they’re to be repatriated, they could just do it from the border.” Three dozen foreigners stumbling around the castle, with no idea where they were or how they were getting home—the Sergeant shuddered at the very thought.

Oleg weighed this suggestion, then went with his own whim. “The main Foreign Affairs Office is here in the castle,” he decided with finality. “They’ll be more efficient at sorting everyone out.”

The main Foreign Affairs Office consisted of two full-time clerks and a twelve-year-old boy name Tobask who pushed the tea trolley. Thirty-six Russians to interview and make travel arrangements for would be more work than they’d had in the last six months—combined. On the other hand, Patrick supposed, the border guards’ idea of “repatriation” would be to toss the ex-slaves clear of the boundary between Zemelanika and Russia and tell them to head south. And it _was_ getting on to winter now... “As you like, sir.”

“Good.” Patrick waited a moment, not wanting to seem _too_ eager to return to his office and box the messenger ‘round the ears a bit. On the other hand, leaving his commander alone while bored was an even more foolish thing to do. The Sergeant frowned a bit as Oleg took his gun out of his shoulder holster and made sure it was loaded (as it always was).

“Send up someone from the dungeons, Patrick,” he continued decisively. “I need to practice an anti-slavery speech. I’ll need my copy of Kuschienko’s _Poems for Humanity_ also.” A pageboy was immediately dispatched to the Shashka’s chambers for the poetry book; Patrick would have to select a suitable prisoner himself—likely the fellow would be shot at the end of the speech, but in case Oleg decided to let him go instead, for being such a good audience, Patrick didn’t want a known troublemaker walking out the door.

“And then,” the Shashka added with a long-suffering sigh, “I will sign all your bloody papers.”

Patrick smiled broadly. “Thank you, sir. Very kind of you.”

**

The courtyard of the castle was chaos, exactly as Patrick had predicted. In fact, it looked _so_ like he had predicted—dirty, grizzled foreigners ill-dressed for a Zemelanikan autumn running from one end of the enclosure to the other as if they would drop dead if they stopped moving, demanding food and water and medical attention and above all, _answers_ at the tops of their lungs—that when the Sergeant first approached he stopped frozen in the doorway, taking in the scene as if it were the product of his own overtaxed brain.

If only it was. The Russian language and Zemelanikan were actually quite similar, enough so that the Russian ex-slaves could make themselves understood to the guards ringing the courtyard. The guards, however, had been instructed to say nothing in return, merely keep the “guests” from wandering through any of the doorways, or fighting amongst themselves. The entire Foreign Affairs Office (minus Tobask the tea trolley boy) was on their way down to start interviewing people and getting them sorted out; Patrick had also sent over to the clinic for medical attendants and ordered a few of the lower workers from the kitchens to bring out some hot food. Not that he was in charge of this melee, of course; no, no, he was just the humble Sergeant, standing off to the side with his collar turned up around his ears against the wind, surveying the circus and wondering at what point he should have firmly insisted the unwashed rabble be left at the border where they’d been found.

_One of the ex-slaves is an American teenager named Jason, who was kidnapped from his parents while traveling. Oleg takes a liking to him and decides that he needs to stay, nominally working in the kitchens, when everyone else is released._


	2. One Night Apart

Jason sometimes wondered if he was wasting water, staying in the shower for so long. Or rather, he _knew_ he was wasting water, but he wondered if anyone minded. Did this strange, cold land have enough fresh water for him to simply stand under the spray for ten minutes, not moving, just letting the rush of hot water wash away the scent of the kitchens? In addition to all the water he used actually scrubbing himself clean?

At the moment, he didn't really care, because he was standing beneath that high-pressure cascade, letting the steam billow around him in the large shower chamber. The kitchens were very warm, but the walk back to the Shashka's rooms was very long and particularly cold this evening, he had thought, so he lingered in the sauna as his skin turned red.

There was a sudden icy draft on his wet body and he turned towards the shower door, startled to see his _kozyain_ , his master, the Shashka, standing in the open doorway. He was all in black, of course, tall and lean, silhouetted against the vague background of while tile and grey steam, and he was just watching the boy, still and lethal as a panther. Jason suddenly remembered that he was quite naked, and then he remembered that the Shashka had seen all that before. But he still felt awkward and embarrassed, and he didn't know where to put his hands.

The Shashka said something, in Zemelanikan of course which the boy didn't understand, but his gesture was easily interpreted and Jason carefully approached him across the black tile of the shower chamber. The older man gave him a long, thoroughly appraising look, then smiled a little bit when he saw the flush in the boy's cheeks--due to the hot water, no doubt. It was colder by the open door, but Jason quickly forgot that when his master pulled him in for a lingering kiss, heedless of the wet spots being left on his dark clothes.

After a moment the Shashka let him go and gave him another small smile. Jason wondered if the older man planned to join him in the shower which, he admitted, he would not entirely object to. His master was saying something else in Zemelanikan now, and Jason tried to pick out any words he knew, with little success. " _Zavtra_ ," the Shashka repeated, " _zavtra_."

" _Zavtra_ ," Jason parroted without comprehension, but the Shashka's smile grew and he patted the boy's cheek in approval. Then he reached down to give the _other_ set of cheeks a friendly smack before he stepped back and gestured into the shower. Carefully the Shashka shut the shower door--with himself on the outside of it--and Jason saw his dark outline stride quickly out of the bathroom. He waited a moment, but his master didn't return. Wondering if he was waiting for him somewhere else, Jason quickly finished his shower and wandered out into the bedroom, wrapped in a fluffy towel.

The dark, luxuriously appointed room was exactly how he had left it, however, except for a tray of supper left on the table by the fire. Jason just sighed and put on a fresh pair of pants and tunic. Someday he would figure out what people were saying to him and then he wouldn't be completely in the dark all the time. Was he _not_ invited down to supper in the main throne room tonight? Or maybe the Shashka wanted to eat dinner with him privately? Should he go ahead and start eating, or should he wait to see if someone joined him? Was the food even for him?

"Hello?" he called out, peering around some of the corners in the bedroom. "Shashka? Kozyain?" The office was empty, the dressing area too. And the steaming food on the tray looked very tempting--duck, probably, since the head cook had been plucking carcasses all morning, and mashed potatoes and bread with butter and jam and some kind of green vegetable, plus an apple dipped in caramel for dessert... "Oh, forget it," Jason decided, settling down at the table and grabbing a fork. He wasn't a mind-reader, after all.

**

After enjoying his delicious meal with no interruptions--or company--Jason stretched out on the couch before the fire with the book he was trying he decipher. It was only a raggedy children's picture book he had found in the library, but Nanek had translated some of the words for him and he was eager to at least get the alphabet down. The mysterious word the Shashka had told him--" _zavtra_ "--was unfortunately not in the book.

An hour or two went by. There weren't even any noises out in the hallway. Jason opened the door to the chamber and looked around; the guards were in their usual places, but no one was headed in his direction. He shut the door and went over to the lounge in the corner, which had a loose panel under the cushions where he hid his "journal," a fancy name for a few scraps of blank paper he had snitched from the Shashka's office. Jason tried to write about things that had happened to him, when he could, but he didn't want anyone else to find it--even though Patrick was the only person around who could actually read English. He quickly sketched the outline of his day, and interesting events from the past several days when he hadn't been able to write because someone was around him all the time. At first he was somewhat anxious that the Shashka might burst in on him, returning from whatever he was doing elsewhere, but another hour passed with no sign of movement outside the room.

Jason hid the journal again and tried to think what else he could do. He wasn't used to having a lot of free time, at least not in the evenings. Usually he showered, had dinner, and then the Shashka...kept him occupied until he fell asleep. During the day he might slip away from the kitchen to explore the castle a bit, but it was too cold to do that after the _darker_ darkness that separated night from day at such high latitudes during the winter. No books he could understand, no TV, no stereo, no computer...what did people _do_ with themselves?

Jason settled in on the couch with a blanket, to think for a while, and woke up stiff and cold with the fire sputtering several hours later. He glanced towards the bed as he stood on wobbly legs, but it was empty--which only made sense, because surely the Shashka would have awakened him if he had come in. Jason kicked off his boots and crawled in between the cold sheets, shivering too hard to sleep right away. He suddenly realized he had never slept in the bed alone. He didn't think he had ever even slept in the _room_ alone. His master had always been with him, since he had arrived at the castle. It was actually kind of a large room, really, with a cold draft coming from somewhere and strange shadows jumping across the surfaces from the dying fire. And the furniture and stones made all sorts of odd noises as they protested the frigid night air. Probably it was the furniture. And not some kind of, oh, horrible huge beast or a crazed peasant with an axe dripping blood—

He woke up with a jerk, still panting from the nightmare, and saw a pale greyish light on the horizon, which passed for dawn at this time of year. And still he was alone in the room.

**

"Nanek, was does _zavtra_ mean?" Jason had actually been eager to get to work that morning, so he could ask his friend for a translation.

" _Zavtra_?" Nanek repeated, scratching at his unshaven face. " _Zavtra_ is tomorrow. The day after today." He dropped another large platter, wet and hopefully clean, on the counter beside the boy, who was dutifully drying one dish after another with his towels. "Why?"

"The Shashka said it to me last night," Jason told him with a shrug. "He seemed to think it was important." He hadn't mentioned yet that his master hadn't been in his rooms last night--he wasn't sure he really _wanted_ to know what he was doing instead. Or who he was with.

"Maybe he said _zavtrak_ , breakfast," Nanek suggested speculatively.

"No, I don't think so, I know that word," the boy replied, stuffing his towel into a freshly washed cup.

"Tomorrow, tomorrow," Nanek mused, and Jason was momentarily struck by the thought of the rotund, scruffy Russian servant belting out a song from _Annie_. He stifled a giggle before he was forced to explain it. "Well, maybe he meant he'd be back tomorrow. Or today, rather."

"Why, where's he gone?" Jason asked, a bit more quickly than he'd meant to.

Nanek gave him a sideways glance. "He and the Sergeant left for Sklonsirop yesterday evening. Or didn't you notice he was gone?"

"I noticed," Jason assured him, refusing to acknowledge his friend's teasing smirk. "I just didn't know where he was going, that's all. Where's Sklonsirop?" he added, trying to change the subject.

"It's west a bit. Provincial capital." Nanek knocked a large cauldron crusty with dried soup into his giant sink full of hot, soapy water and narrowly missed splashing suds onto the clean, rinsed dishes. "Mariya, who cleans the throne room"--here he waggled his thick eyebrows to show how much he appreciated Mariya--"said the Shashka had some kind of meeting there, something about electric rights or whatever."

"Oh." Well, he couldn't expect to be informed about every little change in the schedule, Jason chided himself. And even if he _had_ been told, he probably wouldn't have understood it. He might warm the Shashka's bed--even if the Shashka wasn't actually sleeping in it--but he was still a kitchen boy, as evidenced by the soggy towels and dripping cutlery before him. He wasn't actually anyone _important_.

" _Yasen Malchik_!" The bellowing belonged to the head cook's first assistant, who was lord over the other kitchen servants. No doubt he thought Jason and Nanek were talking too much.

"Sorry!" Jason yelled over his shoulder, his tone more annoyed than apologetic. He rolled his eyes at Nanek, who tried very hard not to look at him.

"Boy, get over here!" came another shout from the main doorway--this one in English, with an Irish accent. Jason looked up in surprise to see Patrick waiting impatiently. "Come on, hurry up!"

Jason barely had time to share a parting glance of bemusement with Nanek before he set down his silverware and hurried across the crowded kitchen to the Sergeant. "You're back," he said. "Is the Shashka back? From Sklonsirop?"

"Well, you're a very clever lad, aren't you?" Patrick replied dryly, grabbing his shoulder and hauling him out the door. He kept a firm grip on the boy as they almost ran through the castle's corridors.

"Hey, Patrick, where's the fire?" Jason protested when he nearly clipped the wall as they took a sharp turn.

"The fire is out in the stables, waiting for you," the Irishman told him, abruptly stopping in the vestibule near the main doors. "Come on, put some more layers on."

The boy grabbed a random sweater and yanked it on over his head. As soon as his arms were free, they were pushed into the sleeves of a thick woolen coat. "Why's he in the stables?"

"Sit." Jason sat down on the wooden bench along the wall. "Boots off."

"Why's he waiting in the stables?" he persisted, kicking his boots off.

Patrick tossed him a second pair of loose pants. "Put these on. Over the ones you've got." He watched the boy hop around for a moment before continuing. "He wants you to go riding with him."

"Riding?" Jason repeated dubiously. "On a horse?"

"Sit. Extra socks. Boots back on. You're starting out on a horse, lad, but what he does to you after that is his own business."

Jason rolled his eyes and stood back up, with his boots tight over two layers of socks. Patrick surveyed him for a minute, then dragged out another coat to wrap around him. "I'm getting kind of hot in here," the boy protested. "Suppose I have to go to the bathroom?" Patrick glared at him and Jason quickly added, "I don't, I don't. Just kidding." He paused, then began, "Why are we--" A heavy scarf was wrapped around his head, momentarily muffling him, and he shoved it away from his mouth. "Why are we going riding?"

"The Shashka missed his horse," Patrick told him shortly, tying the scarf in a knot.

"He was only gone overnight," Jason pointed out, a bit sullenly. His master loved that horse so much, Jason was surprised _it_ wasn't the one warming his bed.

"Aye, well, he missed you too, Yasen Malchik," the Sergeant commented, yanking dark grey mittens over the boy's hands. "Which you can take how you like, I suppose." An obnoxiously red knit cap with floppy tassels was pulled down over Jason's eyes, and he pushed it back up defiantly. Between the scarf, the hat, and the collar of the second coat he could barely see, and he certainly couldn't turn his head much.

Patrick eyed him critically. "You'll do, I suppose." Jason glared at him. "It's cold out, after all." Jason glared again, pointedly glancing at Patrick's fewer layers. "And you're from a warmer climate. Now come on."

Patrick spun the boy around and pushed him through the main doors, out into the snowy courtyard. Although it was mid-morning, the sky was as grey as twilight and wouldn't be getting much lighter. The yard was covered in muddy, disturbed snow and the occasional salted ice patch, which flickered in the light from an odd assortment of torches, lanterns, and fluorescent security lamps. Jason walked awkwardly in his extra layers, which still seemed too many despite the icy wind that swept over the castle walls. Patrick was merciless in hurrying him along towards the stables, and the boy began to feel nervous about his master's mood, which could be quite unpredictable.

There were uniformed guards stationed on either side of the stable doors, but of course they didn't even blink as Patrick pulled the stumbling boy past them. The Sergeant didn't mean to be brusque with the lad, but when the Shashka said he wanted something--or someone-- _now_ , he meant _now_ , and he wasn't too forgiving about little obstacles like the laws of time and space. The stables were, of course, heated, better heated than many parts of the castle, and filled with the scent of fresh hay and reasonably clean horses.

The Shashka was talking to Polya when they entered, such an in-depth conversation that he acknowledged their presence only when Polya protested the intruders by nickering and stamping his foot. "Oh, come on now," Oleg told him firmly, "it's only Patrick. And you've seen the boy before." Polya was not impressed.

Oleg rolled his eyes and turned to greet the boy, but stopped mid-smile when he saw how he was dressed. The Shashka turned an accusing eye on his Sergeant. "Patrick, what _is_ this? He looks like a stuffed turkey! Come _here_ , boy, come on!" Patrick gave Cinder a nudge forward, and the boy gingerly approached his master. Oleg poked and pulled disapprovingly at the multiple layers. "Did you think I was going to leave him out in the snow? He can't even walk properly, how's he going to ride a horse?” Oleg flipped one of the boy’s coat lapels aside in irritation. “How am I going to get this off him?"

Patrick smirked a little as his leader's main concern was revealed. "Warm climate, sir," he reminded the Shashka. "You wouldn't want him to get frostbite, would you?"

"And this--what is this?" Oleg snatched the bright red hat off the boy's head and shook the little tassels furiously. "This is ridiculous!"

"So the guards can keep an eye on him, sir," Patrick explained easily, loosening the collar of his coat against the warmth of the building. The boy would soon be roasting, he decided, and he didn’t look too pleased with his less-than-welcoming reception.

Oleg rolled his eyes, thoroughly disgusted by both the gaudy headgear and his Sergeant’s logic. "Fine," he snorted, shoving the hat back into Cinder's arms. The boy looked at him in confusion, with more than a little apprehension thrown in. "Put it on, boy!" Oleg ordered in irritation. "The hat! Put it back on!" The boy scrambled to obey, following the Shashka's gestures more than his words. "Patrick, _when_ is he going to learn to speak our language?"

"Oh, he'll pick it up quick enough, sir, if he's got the proper incentive."

"Polya knows exactly what I'm saying," Oleg pointed out, stroking the large silver horse's forehead.

"Well, he's a native, sir," Patrick deadpanned.

Oleg smiled at the horse affectionately as he scratched behind an ear, and Patrick saw the boy glower under his red tassels. "I don't like horses," Cinder said in a deceptively friendly tone of voice. "I think they stink. And they're pretty stupid, too."

Patrick smothered his smirk behind his hand. He wasn't sure what was funnier--the boy's rudeness that he thought most people couldn't understand, or the Shashka's attempts at not revealing his command of English. At the moment, it was fortunate the boy was concentrating so hard on his own deception, because he didn't notice his master's struggles with his own. Insulting a horse was a deadly sin in Oleg's opinion.

"Oh, you like horses, do you?" Oleg replied in the native tongue, deliberately misinterpreting the boy's English. "Come here, meet Polya."

The horse jerked his head away disdainfully as Oleg stretched the boy's hand towards him. "He doesn't like me!" Cinder protested, tugging away a bit nervously.

"Polya, don't let the boy frighten you," Oleg told the horse consolingly. "I think he's more afraid of _you_." Polya snorted as if to say that fear was not his problem with the skittery, uncomfortable lad. "Now come on, pet him."

"What if he bites my fingers off?" Cinder asked frantically, curling them up protectively on the hand Oleg was still trying to direct.

"Pet the horse!" Language barrier or not, the boy understood a command when he heard it and reluctantly opened his hand. His fingertips had almost brushed the animal when Polya whinnied angrily and jumped a bit. If the boy could have detached his arm from his master, he would have been on the other side of the stables in about half a second.

"Be still!" Oleg thundered, and both horse and boy obeyed. "Polya, you're being very rude. Don't you remember what I told you about Yasen? I want you to try and get along with him." Years of listening to his commander try to talk sensibly to his horse had left Patrick with a very good poker face. "As for you, boy...Patrick, tell him that if he doesn't pet the horse, I'll cut his hand off."

"I'd pet the horse if I were you, lad," Patrick advised Cinder in English. "It'll be worse for you if you don't."

Swallowing hard, Cinder reached his hand up on his own and hesitantly touched the horse's forehead. The animal's huge black eyes glared at him in fury, he felt, but the silver beast remained motionless. "Hey, he didn't bite me!" the boy pointed out in relief. "Do you think maybe he doesn't hate me completely?"

"I don't know, lad," Patrick replied dubiously. "You _did_ call him stupid and smelly."

"Oh, he didn't understand that," the boy assured him, stroking the horse more confidently. "He doesn't speak English."

"Yes, this horse only converses in Zemelanikan," the Sergeant agreed dryly. "When you learn that, you can insult him proper."

"You'll be riding Mishka," Oleg told the boy, pulling him away from the grey stallion towards a creamy yellow horse waiting nearby. "Mishka is very friendly." Indeed, the much more docile-looking animal stood patiently while the boy pet her.

“Hey, Patrick,” Cinder said after a moment. “I’m getting kind of hot in here…” The teenager had decided to leave the hat on, as ordered, but he was tugging at the fastenings of his outermost layer, with little success. “Do you think maybe we’ll be leaving soon?”

“Sir?” The Shashka looked up from tightening Polya’s saddle. “The lad’s going to be a baked potato if he stays indoors much longer.”

“And whose fault is that, may I ask?” Oleg replied pointedly.

“Patrick, I’m really getting hot…” Cinder was trying to hold his mittens under his arms while simultaneously untwisting the clasps of his coat, and he was starting to look a bit frantic.

The Sergeant gave his commander a look, and Oleg rolled his eyes and turned back to the boy. “Leave it!” he ordered, smacking the boy’s hands. “Get on your horse.”

With the aid of a couple stable boys and much exasperated sighing from the Shashka, the boy ended up on Mishka, facing the right direction no less, though he still looked uncomfortable and nervous. “You’re headed out to the South Hunting Lodge, sir?” Patrick confirmed, gazing up at his commander. The Shashka was quite the imposing figure, all in black on the huge grey animal; next to him, almost anyone would look faintly ridiculous, even if they _weren’t_ an overstuffed boy on a pastel plow horse. “It’ll be ready for you.”

“Thanks, Patrick.” Oleg turned the horse towards the wide doors the stable hands had pulled open. “Come _on_ , boy!” Cinder seemed at a complete loss as to how to induce motion in his horse. “Have you never even _seen_ a horse before? Patrick, didn’t you say they have—plays or something, where people ride horses?”

“Perhaps the boy doesn’t like Westerns, sir.”

Oleg decided to try a different tactic. “Mishka! Come on!” Immediately the cream-colored horse trotted out of its stall. Its rider looked appropriately apprehensive.

“Have a nice ride, sir,” Patrick called after them, as the two made their way across the courtyard towards the castle gates. He shook his head, imagining what the boy was in for, then turned his mind towards the multitude of other tasks that required his attention that day.


	3. First Cold

When Jason finally decided to crack an eyelid in the chilly bedroom lit only with paltry northern sunlight, he realized he didn’t feel so great. Actually, these days, waking up achy and sluggish wasn’t exactly a new thing, but this felt different somehow. His throat was sore, and as he pulled himself up on his elbows he started to cough. And it wasn’t just, um, _certain_ body parts that felt like they’d been overexerted, it was _everything_. Jason sighed and noticed that his nose was getting stuffed up. There was no way around it—he was getting sick.

What a miserable place to be sick in… he didn’t even know what these people did when they got a cold. Did they go to a witch doctor or something? Bury a jar of their urine in a field under a full moon? The teenager dragged himself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to sink into his usual hot morning bath. He popped four of the Tylenol Patrick had slipped him, hoping they might magically fight his infection. No _wonder_ he’d gotten sick, he told himself unhappily, soaking in the steaming water. It was freezing around here all the time, there wasn’t enough sunlight, he was under a lot of _stress_ because he had no idea what people were telling him to do or what was going on… His immune system had obviously just given up.

Hey, and who knew _what_ kind of foreign germs they had around here? Jason sat up in the water suddenly, trying to remember if he’d seen anyone else around him sick lately. Did they exhibit any symptoms that were exotic to him? Purple spots or coughing up black phlegm or anything like that? What if this was something that everyone else was used to getting, that was just like a cold for them, but he didn’t have antibodies or whatever for it, and he got _really_ sick? The teenager felt a cold chunk of ice appear in his stomach that he knew had nothing to do with whatever foreign germs were invading his system. Did they have hospitals here? Did they have antibiotics and penicillin and IVs and heart monitors and stuff? Or did they just have herbal tea and saunas? And what if—what if they did have some modern stuff, but the Shashka wouldn’t let them use it on him? Or what if he thought a little kitchen slave wasn’t worth the trouble?

Now Jason was really making himself miserable. He forced himself to get out of the bath and get dressed, trying to look as normal as possible. He suppressed all the coughs he could, ignored the sore throat and muscles, frequently blew his nose to clear it. Maybe this was one of those illnesses where if you ignored it, it would go away. Sometimes those happened, right? Orange juice, he needed orange juice, he decided desperately. They had citrus fruit here, didn’t they? They must, they must fly it in from somewhere, surely. If he could just have some orange juice and get moving around with his work in the kitchen, he would probably feel better.

**

“You look terrible,” Nanek told him, refilling his mug with tea.

“Thanks,” Jason replied sarcastically, sniffing. “I’ll be okay.”

“No, you look like you’re sick or something,” his friend insisted, peering closely at him across the tables. “You know, the head cook is very strict about sick people in the kitchen. Might contaminate all the food. You should go back to bed.”

“I don’t want to go back to bed,” the boy told him irritably, burning his tongue on the tea. “It’s just a cold. I don’t go near the food anyway.” He sneezed into his sleeve.

Nanek shook his head and stuffed his last forkful of breakfast into his mouth. “Whatever you say,” he responded disbelievingly. “But you’d better not let the head cook see you like this.”


End file.
